For All The World To See
by Kizzia
Summary: John reflects on the fact that, sometimes, there are instincts which cannot be denied. No matter where you are or who happens to be watching. Posted today because, in my head, 15 June 2011 was the day Sherlock jumped and I needed some reunion goodness to cheer me up on the second anniversary of his fall! Please read the author's note at the start before you dive into the story


**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't claim, not making any profit.

**Author's Note**: The initial idea for this story popped into my head when I saw a wonderful setlock picture shared by the lovely a-speckled-blonde on Tumblr. You can view it from the link on my profile page if you'd like to. It isn't, strictly speaking, a total spoiler as it was taken during a break in filming but well, I know how it feels to be spoiled accidentally so I wanted to make sure everyone was aware of where the inspiration came from.

That said, this story could have been written without the prompting of the picture because, well, reappearing from the dead is going to generate interest from certain quarters and this type of scenario has featured in quite a lot of reunion fics already. Although not, as far as I'm aware, quite like this.

This has also not been beta'd by anyone other than me.

And on that note, if anyone is still reading, I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

When John had stepped, half a pace behind Sherlock, down into the barrage of flashbulbs and shouts he was sleep deprived, had badly bruised ribs and felt like he'd been caught up in a tornado given the number of emotions he'd cycled through in the preceding two days. Which could go someway to explaining why, ten minutes later, when he registered the camera flashes frantically going off again and saw the bemused wonderment in Sherlock's eyes as he reluctantly pulled back from what he had to admit was an amazing kiss, he automatically assumed his couldn't-have-been-more-public display of affection was born out of physical and emotional exhaustion messing with his mind.

It took another twenty four hours before he found time to think about it properly. It didn't take long for him to acknowledge that the reason he kissed Sherlock - who was currently cradling John so securely he couldn't imagine wanting to move ever again – really wasn't due to any form of exhaustion. No, it had been the surge of sheer possessiveness which had flooded his veins when he saw the intensity of some of the looks Sherlock was getting from the reporters at the front of the huge crowd.

He might have been able to keep a lid on that entirely caveman like instinct if his brain hadn't chosen precisely that moment to point out that this wasn't a dream. Sherlock really was back; back from the dead and back in John's life. It then pointed out that Sherlock was, currently, less than a foot away from him and was now also - thanks to the discussion they'd concluded not ten minutes before Mycroft had called and ordered them to come down and deal with the media circus Sherlock's reappearance had generated - most definitely available to be kissed wherever and whenever he wanted.

The pure joy the reaffirmation of that knowledge had generated inside him – joy that coalescing into a warm ball in the centre of his chest and then expanded throughout his entire body with dizzying speed - had made him want to wrap himself around Sherlock that very instant. Made him more than just want to; never in his life had John felt such a visceral, all consuming, need to do something as he had then.

He could no more have stopped himself grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and kissing the lanky git senseless at that moment than he could have ceased to breath of his own volition.

The fact that they happened to be on the doorstep of 221B, surrounded by more of the world's press than John had ever hoped to see in one place, had not mattered to him at all.

oxOxo

'You're thinking about that kiss,' Sherlock murmured against John's temple. They were stretched out on the sofa; John's hips bracketed by Sherlock's thighs, his back resting against Sherlock's chest, his arms covered by Sherlock's own and their fingers entwined. The curtains were drawn despite it being mid-afternoon; a number of the more persistent of the press photographers had not yet got tired of trying to get a new version of "that kiss" which had been splashed over the front page of every single one of this morning's newspapers.

'I can't help it.' John twisted until he could see Sherlock's face. 'I literally outed us both to the world just because I couldn't rein in a possessive impulse. I didn't even pause to wonder whether you'd mind.'

'I should hope there will never be a time when I would mind you kissing me,' Sherlock said quietly, his mouth curling into a gentle smile and his eyes going soft in a way that had happened often in the last couple of days.

John had never expected to see such a visible manifestation of love on Sherlock's face, never mind directed at him, but there it was; a little tremulous still, a little shaky and somewhat lost but most definitely there. If John hadn't already been utterly convinced by Sherlock's stumbling declaration of his feelings then this expression would have clinched it. He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to seeing it and part of him hoped he never would; it set forth what felt like a legion of the best sort of butterflies in the depths of his belly. Unable to help himself he wriggled closer to Sherlock and tilted his head, wanting that beautiful smile pressed against his own lips.

'You're still feeling guilty,' Sherlock said approximately twenty minutes later, when they broke apart for some much needed air. He added, somewhat petulantly, 'I insist you stop. I think it's affecting your kisses.'

John gave a snort of laughter but there was no humour in his tone when he replied, 'I can't just turn it off, Sherlock.' His fingers continued to stroke through the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. 'I made a huge decision about our relationship on the spur of the moment and didn't even discuss it with you. It was high handed, overbearing and wrong.'

'You really are completely remarkable.'

John looked up sharply at the mix of awe and confusion in Sherlock's voice.

'I return to you having taken monumental decisions about the course of our lives without even pausing to consider the hell I was about to put us both through and here you are, apparently fine with my betrayal and deception, but still worrying about having kissed me in public. You're being completely illogical.'

John shifted so they were sitting face to face and reached out to cup Sherlock's cheek with his hand.

'I'm being perfectly logical,' he said, ignoring the way Sherlock's eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline. 'You're the one starting from an incorrect premise.'

'I beg your pardon.'

'You're assuming that the situations in which those decisions were taken are similar. They aren't. You were playing a deadly game against a psychopathic genius who wanted you discredited and dead and was quite happy to make you watch as he killed the people you cared most about in the world. It was life or death. You were up against the clock and if you'd got it wrong then you, me, Greg and Mrs Hudson would probably all be side by side in that cemetery by now! That is in no way comparable to me letting my base instincts take over and jumping you in front of the world and his wife barely half an hour after we'd acknowledged exactly how we felt about each other!'

'I … now you're just being ridiculous,' Sherlock said, voice so low that John felt the response more than he heard it. It was the way Sherlock had pulled away from his hand, so they weren't looking at each other anymore, that gave away what the real problem was, though.

'No more ridiculous than you. You think I'm still angry about what you did. Because you don't understand how I can have forgiven you and you won't just come out and ask. And you're sitting there, thinking that one day I'm going to wake up and not want you in my life any more, aren't you?'

'I … that's …' Sherlock's mouth continued to move but no more words were forthcoming. John decided to make the most of having, for the first time ever, rendered Sherlock speechless.

'It's not going to happen, Sherlock. Yes, I was angry when you reappeared. Yes, I was furious that you'd lied to me. I thought you'd gone because you didn't trust me. I was hurt you'd left me behind. Right up to the point where I managed to actually listen to what you were trying to tell me … right up to the point where I actually let you explain. And I can't deny that these three years have been hard and I certainly can't say they won't affect my behaviour. Hell, I'm probably going to get twitchy every time you go off on your own for months and I certainly never want to see you at the top of any buildings any time soon but …'

John paused, returning his hand to Sherlock's face and gently urging it round till they were looking at each other again.

'What you did was, well … do you remember telling me, back when Moriarty first showed up, that I shouldn't make you into a hero?'

He didn't wait for Sherlock to answer.

'Well I didn't need to, you did that yourself when you stepped off that roof.'

'John I …'

'No, Sherlock, let me finish. You knew faking your own death would hurt the people you were trying to keep safe, you knew it would hurt you as well. You didn't know if you could ever come back and you didn't know if there would be a place for you if you did manage to return but you still did it. You accepted that although you might not actually be dead that the life you'd built, the life you loved, would, for all intents and purposes, be over. You were ready to give your life to let me keep mine. I would be a fool if I turned away from that level of love. And I'm going to spend every waking minute for the rest of our lives trying to show you that I feel exactly the same.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and John could feel him trembling slightly under his hands. For a second John wondered if he'd said too much.

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes snapped back open and the look in them sent heat pulsing through John's entire body.

'Remarkable doesn't even begin to cover what you are, John Watson,' Sherlock said, voice thick with the unshed tears glistening in his eyes. 'And I have no idea what I have done to deserve having you in my life. So please, desist berating yourself with all those useless, unnecessary feelings of guilt.

'Because if you think that, had you asked me, I would have raised any objections to being quite so unequivocally and visibly claimed as yours then you're capable of a level of idiocy greater than I thought possible. I am proud that you shared with the entire world that I have proved worthy of your love.'

'Oh, Sherlock,' John murmured as they stared at each other, chests heaving. Words and phrases chased themselves through John's head, each one inept as the next for expressing the feelings Sherlock's little speech had stirred in him.

But words were rendered unnecessary as this time Sherlock was the one to give in to his instincts. His hands wrapped themselves round John's shoulders as he crashed their mouths together. John melted into the kiss, using his lips and tongue to show Sherlock all the things he was feeling but couldn't find a way to say. Sherlock seemed to have similar objective and before long John was struggling to remember anything other than the fact that he was, wholly and completely, loved.

Just before his mind went offline entirely a small part of him – the same one that used to make giggling at crime scenes seem like a good idea - pointed out that those reporters, if they'd known what was currently happening behind the curtains they were watching so avidly, would be really sorry they weren't getting any photos of this kiss.


End file.
